


Changing Laws Not Set In Stone

by geckoholic



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BAMF Sharon Carter, Blood Loss, F/M, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Spy Stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 19:45:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7814701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Sharon Carter doesn't do bad days by halves.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Changing Laws Not Set In Stone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saiditallbefore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saiditallbefore/gifts).



> You didn't put much up by the way of requests, save for the timeframe, so I kinda just... rolled with what came to mind. XD
> 
> Beta-read by kiss_me_cassie. Thank you!! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Somebody Wishes They Were You" by Adelita's Way.

The past has always thrown longer shadows on Sharon's life than it does on the lives of most people. For awhile, back when she was a naive teenager who thought that it was possible to detach herself from the heritage of those who came before her, she tried outrunning them. At twelve, she wanted to be a veterinarian. At fifteen, she thought maybe firefighter would be a good idea. 

At eighteen, she applied to the SHIELD academy. 

It wasn't giving in to fate so much as it was allowing herself a sober look at her talents and interests. Her skill set. The history she stands for. She had been raised on tales of Captain America and the Howling Commandos, stories about soldiers and spies, the memories of someone who steered her fledgling organization through the murky waters of the cold war and beyond. There was a framed photo in Aunt Peggy's office, her and Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes arm in arm, their smiles wide but worn, war-weary. Sharon inherited it the day she started her training as an agent. These days, it stands on a chest of drawers in the hallway of her apartment in Berlin. She's proud of the legacy she presents , but flaunting it on the job never seemed like a good idea. And so she'd taken it with her from place to place, city to city, apartment to apartment. She doesn't think about it much anymore. Sometimes she forgets it exists. 

 

***

 

Sharon Carter doesn't do bad days by halves. 

This particular train wreck of a day started with being summoned to see her superior officer, a woman in her fifties who seems to think she needs to make up for the lack of a penis by being twice as mean as her male counterparts. She doesn't yell. She makes you feel utterly inferior and like a waste of skin and money. Under normal circumstances, Sharon wouldn't be receptive to that kind of manipulation, but... it's harder to ignore when she already feels guilty. Not for her actions or their results, necessarily. The guilt springs from betraying the people she worked with for _a year_ , lying to fellow agents who had her back and made her laugh in front of the coffee maker during lunch break. That's part and parcel for her profession, and Sharon _knows_ that, but it's not exactly her favorite aspect of the work. 

Nevertheless, she has an allegiance that's more important than temporary office friendships. She has a _legacy_. And so she swallows both the reprimand and the guilt, sits through the odd looks for the rest of the day, and heads to the rendezvous point Steve had texted her the previous night. She drives until she's out of the city, surrounded by bright yellow and dull green fields, rapeseed and wheat, the road lined by large trees. No navigation device for this one; there's a map spread out on the passenger seat, and she tries to simultaneously keep an eye on the road and follow her path on the paper with a her fingertips. She curses when the car swerves, hitting the grass verge, and narrowly manages to avoid a collision with one of those fucking old birches. 

Sharon drives off the road properly and kills the engine. She's almost there, it has to be around here _somewhere_. They – 

The other car emerges from a dirt road hidden within the woodwork and flashes its headlights on and off, once, twice. No one has said anything about a secret signal, and while it's the kind of dorky old-fashioned shit that might fit Steve, Sharon's got a weird feeling spreading through her guts. This is wrong. All of this is _wrong_. 

Her suspicions are confirmed when the passenger side window of the other care gets lowered, and she's greeted by the familiar shape of a government-issued handgun. Sharon starts the engine and puts it in reverse, dirt clouds billowing behind her as she accelerates too fast, nearly loses control of the car again when she turns on a dime and speeds down the road in the direction she came from. She rummages around in her handbag under the seat, trying to unearth her cell phone, remembers too late that it's connected to her board computer and she merely has to pull out her headset and give it the command to dial. That might otherwise have been a bad idea – easily traceable – but she's compromised anyway. Little point left in trying to stay under the radar, staying alive is the name of the game now. The call connects, but all that gets her is an automatic message informing her the number she's dialed is currently unavailable. 

She tries not to assume the worst and breathes in deeply a few times, then out, calming her nerves and her pulse rate. A glance back over her shoulder tells her that at least her attackers aren't in pursuit. She's under no illusion that the threat is over, but she stays under the speed limit and drives back to the city without incident. She drives around the maze of streets in old town a few times, waiting for nightfall, and carefully checks for a tail before she heads back home, parks the car a few blocks away and walks the rest. 

Sharon lets herself into her apartment and reaches up to pull the hair tie from her ponytail, throws it into the bowl by the door that holds her keys and various knickknacks, toes her shoes off as she walks down the hallway, and freezes. 

The photo is missing. 

She takes her gun from the holster strapped to her torso and tiptoes into the living room. Whoever's in here must have already heard her, but training is training, and she leaves the lights off, gun held in front of herself, safety unlocked and finger on the trigger. 

Someone's sitting on her couch, arms spread out across the back like he owns the place, something dangling from his left hand that looks vaguely like a photo frame. His clothes rustle when he leans forward, and she sees him cock his head, a nameless silhouette in the dark. 

“I know I didn't leave the best impression the last time we met,” he says, and his voice is familiar. At second glance, so is the shape of him. 

Sharon lowers the gun. “Barnes?” 

 

***

 

Ten minutes later, Sharon has mostly acclimatized herself to the fact that the former Winter Soldier sits on her couch. Stranger things have happened to her. Probably. She marches back into the living room with two steaming mugs of coffee, hands one to him, and he accepts after carefully placing the photo on the coffee table. She sits down on one of her arm chairs, the table between them, and asks the question that has had her heart in her stomach since she noticed Barnes was here _alone_.

“Where is Rogers? And Wilson?”

He wraps both hands around the coffee mug – the normal hand and the metal one, shiny and new and all Wakandan vibranium – and looks up slowly. “We were attacked in the air. They had to exit the plane. I landed it. Haven't found them yet.”

Sharon wants to ask if they’re okay, but that wouldn’t be a question he could answer. She takes a sip from her coffee and looks at the situation like an _agent_. “Do you know who attacked you?”

“Former KGB,” he says, in a monotone voice. “I assume they heard about Zemo and thought I still have the trigger.”

He holds her eyes for a few more seconds, then glances down. If they were after him, he might feel responsible to whatever happened to Steve and Sam. She doubts they would see it that way. She also knows that rarely helps with the guilt.

“Last known coordinates?” she asks and watches him turn the mug in his hands. She expects it to crack whenever the metal one takes the lead, for the rest of his coffee to spill out on her carpet. 

Barnes shakes his head and exhales. “Roughly, but I already searched the area. They're not there anymore.” 

“Do you have _anything_ useful?” Sharon's unable to keep frustration from seeping into her tone. She's used to briefings, professional and on point, and having to coax a full picture out of him bit by bit is getting old incredibly fast. 

“I asked around,” he says, biting his lip. “And it seems two men matching their description were seen headed for the city. They're looking for me, I think, same as I've been looking for them.” 

Sharon sighs. Patience. She can be patient. He'll tell her everything she needs to know eventually. “So you came here to ask for my help in finding them?” 

Another shake of his head. “No. Not exactly.” 

There's something wrong with how he holds himself, how evasive he is, and Sharon doesn't like liars, even if they're lying by omission. She sits up straighter and fixes him with a glare. “Then please, do tell me why _the hell_ you're here.” 

Instead of an answer, he holds up his left arm, revealing a large red stain on his blue shirt, and Sharon curses. She looks him over, paying more attention to his physical condition this time, and now she notices the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way his flesh hand lightly trembles whenever it's not holding the coffee mug. She should have _seen_ this. 

Sharon jumps to her feet, running down the hallway and into the bathroom to retrieve her first aid kit and old towels. She's already ripping open packages when she reenters the living room, and gestures for him to loose jacket and shirt. “Why didn't you say anything?” 

He lifts his arms up over his head and strips off the shirt, then looks at her expectantly. He doesn't answer her question, and Sharon rolls her eyes but steps close to inspect the gash in his side. It's a deep cut, frayed at the edges, and she suspects _landing the plane_ wasn't as much of a straightforward affair as he made it sound. She douses one of the towels with disinfectant and hesitantly touches it to his body. There are no expressions of pain or even discomfort; he doesn't hiss or flinch, stares stoically ahead while she cleans the wound. She doesn't bother informing him that he'll need stitches, just holds up the needle and the thread and waits for acknowledgment and, upon his nod, gets to work. 

After she's done, she covers the wound with gauze and sits back. “All done.” 

He smiles at her in gratitude, looks down at the bandage, and promptly passes out. 

 

*** 

 

Sharon's stronger than her petite frame might suggest, but Barnes is even heavier than he looks, and by the time she managed to maneuver him onto her bed she's breathing hard with exhaustion. The fact that he's still out has her mildly concerned – aren't supersoldiers supposed to heal faster? – but given that Steve had been unconscious for days after Washington and she couldn't say how much blood Barnes lost, she talks herself out of worrying too much. Neither of them are _invincible_. 

She checks his pulse and breathing one more time, just in case. She collects sheets and a blanket from her wardrobe and prepares her own night-quarters on the couch. 

 

***

 

Hacking her work database and the linked agencies from home is a tad more difficult than doing it from her office computer port, but not beyond her skill set. She does it sitting cross-legged on the couch, her laptop in front of her, and her blanket pooled around her hips. The algorithm she employs to find CCTV footage of Sam and Steve brings up a fair amount of files, all of which are grainy and distant and may or may not be them. The cell phone number Steve had given her is still out of service and the phone it belonged to last hasn't moved since yesterday. 

In short: she digs up a whole lot of nothing. If Sam and Steve are indeed in Berlin, they're covering their footsteps well. Natasha would be proud. Sharon's currently somewhat inconvenienced. 

She looks up when she hears footsteps down the hallway, and she's prepared for a lot of things, but not for the sight of the former Winter Soldier, still shirtless but with the comforter wrapped around his shoulders, barefoot, the only piece of clothing on him his jeans. They have a small bloodstain on the waistband, darker than the rest of the fabric where it dripped down from his cut. The edge of the join between metal and flesh on his left side is visible. 

Sharon blinks and drags her gaze up to his face. For all that he's been out for more than ten hours, he doesn't look very refreshed. There are big discolored bruises underneath his eyes, and they're drooping, he can't seem to keep them open. 

“There's orange juice and sandwiches in the fridge,” she says, pointing towards the kitchen, and he nods and detours into the direction he's been given. Cupboards are opened and dishware clangs, and a little while later he returns with a glass and a plate. 

And then he stands in the middle of the room, glancing at the arrangement of furniture, and to Sharon, and she finds herself scooting so he can sit down next to her. 

Half an hour later, the laptop has been closed up and Barnes is asleep again, this time bundled up against her side, still wrapped into the comforter from the bedroom, and Sharon has a little spare time to regret three or five of her most recent life choices. 

She possibly doesn't regret them as much as she should. 

 

*** 

 

The knock on her door a few hours later has them both on their feet in an instant. Barnes steps in front of her and Sharon is a tiny bit torn between indignation and reminding herself that what's still functional of his brain was raised in the forties and he's likely trying to be polite, not patronizing. Even so, she puts a hand on his upper arm – the right one, she's not completely out of her mind – and shoves past him. 

The sight of Steve and Sam, both looking a little ragged and worse for the wear but otherwise intact, is not entirely unexpected. Sharon actually wishes she could be a bit more surprised, but hey, this is her life now. 

The look on Steve's face when his gaze wanders past her and takes in a shirtless, bed-haired Bucky, however, is a treat Sharon isn't at all prepared for. He looks _scandalized_. Sam breaks out in a fit of laughter, which means it falls to Sharon to be a mature adult and wave them into the apartment before any one of her neighbors feels compelled to investigate the ruckus in the hallways. 

 

***

 

Sharon's home doubles as a home base for wayward Avengers for the next two days. It's kind of unnerving and kind of fun, and by the end of it she's resigning herself to the fact that job hunting is on her horizon _again_ , because when _Steve Rogers_ requires your assistance _to save lives_ that's a full-time gig and not easily relegated outside business hours. Her current employer doesn't look too fondly on unannounced days off. Well. Most employers wouldn't, she guesses. 

The three soldiers-gone-superhero move out of her day-to-day life as quickly as they descended upon it, and within hours of wrapping their current threat, they have their gear packed and are gathered in the hallway of her apartment for quick but heartfelt goodbyes. Sam and Steve beat it first, Steve with a somewhat pained expression and Sam punching his buddy in the arm, and then it's just her and Barnes. 

He pats the space where his bandage still rests, even though his reconvalescence did gain supersoldier-appropriate momentum at some point. The gray-blue eyes are clear now, and they're focused on her in a way that makes her spine tingle against her better judgment. 

“Thank you,” he says, all earnest and soulful. 

“No problem,” she replies, smiling her sudden nerves away. 

Barnes picks up the framed photo that has made a return to its original place on the chest of drawers and runs a finger across the frame. “She was a great woman.” 

Sharon would really rather not discuss her aunt right now, but she nods. “She was. I still can't wrap my head around the fact that _she_ knew the two of you, and now _I_ know the two of you.” 

He stares at the photo a moment longer before he sets it down and turns to leave, and oh, to hell with it. Sharon has never quite believed in the socially accepted female habit of letting herself be chased, and besides, being reckless is a part of the Carter legacy too. She grazes his hips with her hand, loosely hooking a finger in one of his belt loops. He stops mid-motion and turns back, one eyebrow cocked, and Sharon reaches up to wrap her arms around his neck and drag him down for a kiss. 

His lips are soft and warm, and for some reason Sharon didn't think they'd be either. Not like she did think about it much before now, but, well, in a sort of theoretical way she assumed he'd be... different. Everything but being so shockingly _human_. Normal. Like everyone else she ever kissed, and then again not at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com).


End file.
